Tank’s Protection (Savage Riders MC #2)

Chapter 1 - Tank

I crouch behind the shipping container, surveying the warehouse yard through my night vision goggles. Two sentries patrol the perimeter, both armed with semi-automatics. Amateurs. They're walking predictable patterns and smoking, the ember glow making them easy targets in the darkness.

"Rage, you seeing this shit?" I whisper into my comm.

"Yeah," his voice crackles back. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."

"No shooting unless absolutely necessary," I remind him. "We're here to destroy the supply line, not start a bloodbath."

Beast's deep voice comes through my earpiece. "Torch is ready with the charges. Just give the word."

I check my watch. Two minutes until the shift change we observed during recon. Perfect timing. The Iron Eagles are creatures of habit, which makes them predictable. Predictable means dead in our world.

"Everyone hold position," I order. "Wait for my signal."

King trusts me with these operations because I'm methodical.

Where he's all calculated fury and intimidation, I'm the strategist. The one who makes sure every move serves a purpose.

And tonight's purpose is to hit Vulture where it hurts most—his wallet.

The shipment of uncut cocaine in that warehouse is worth millions.

Taking it out will cripple the Iron Eagles' cash flow for months.

My earpiece crackles. "Tank, come in." It's Shadow back at the clubhouse.

"Little busy here," I growl.

"Need you back at the clubhouse ASAP."

"In the middle of something."

"It's important, man. Someone's here to see you."

"Who?"

The pause lasts just a second too long. "Your sister."

My blood freezes. Jenny? At the clubhouse? In the middle of a fucking war?

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine, but she's not alone. There's a woman with her. And a kid."

"Christ." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Put King on."

A moment later, King's voice fills my ear. "Take Beast with you. Rage and Torch can handle this."

I don't argue. King's word is law, and if he thinks the situation at the clubhouse needs my attention, I trust his judgment. Besides, Rage and Torch are more than capable of blowing up a warehouse.

"You heard the man," I say to the team. "Change of plans. Beast, you're with me. Rage, you're in charge. Wait for the shift change, then proceed as planned."

Beast materializes beside me like a mountain stepping out of fog. For a man his size, he moves with unsettling silence.

"What's going on?" he asks as we make our way back to our bikes.

"Jenny's at the clubhouse."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Your sister? The one you haven't spoken to in—"

"Yeah, that one," I cut him off, not wanting to discuss the five years of silence between us. "And she's brought company."

We reach our bikes, and I feel the adrenaline as my Harley roars to life beneath me. The vibration grounds me, helps me focus. Whatever's waiting at the clubhouse, I can handle it. I've faced down death more times than I can count. Family drama shouldn't be worse.

But somehow, it always is.

30 minutes later

The clubhouse is unnervingly quiet when we arrive. No music, no raucous laughter, none of the usual chaos that fills our sanctuary. Just murmured voices from the main room and the subtle scent of Luna's cooking, something with garlic and tomatoes.

I find King waiting in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest. His face gives away nothing, but I've known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders.

"What's the situation?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"Your sister showed up about forty minutes ago with a friend and her kid." He pauses. "The friend's sporting a shiner that makeup doesn't quite cover. Running from someone, from what I gather."

My jaw tightens. "And they came here? Now of all times?"

"Jenny has no idea what's going on with the Eagles," King says. "She just seems to think we can help. Said she didn't know where else to go. And you didn't tell me you and your sister were still in touch," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly.

"We're not." I run a hand over my buzzed hair. "Haven't spoken in five years."

King digests this information with a slight nod. "Well, she's here now. And she's your blood, which makes her our concern."

I know what he's not saying. In our world, family—blood or chosen—is everything. Even estranged family.

"I'll handle it," I say.

"I know you will." He claps me on the shoulder. "Luna's feeding them. The kid looks half-starved."

The mention of a hungry child sets my teeth on edge. I've seen too many in war zones, in neighborhoods where cops never patrolled. Nothing makes me more useless with rage than seeing a child suffer.

I follow King into the main room and stop dead in my tracks. Jenny sits at the long table beside Luna, looking both out of place and strangely at home. Her hair is longer than I remember, her face thinner. She's talking quietly, hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming.

Beside her sits a woman who might have been even prettier before exhaustion carved dark circles under her eyes and fear tightened her mouth. And the bruise… Christ, the bruise blooming across her left cheekbone is no accident. It's the precise size and shape of a man's fist.

But it's the little girl who sucker-punches me. She can't be more than five, with blonde pigtails and a pink dress that's seen better days. She's hunched over a plate of spaghetti, eating like she hasn't seen food in days, one arm curled around her plate like someone might take it away.

I've seen that posture before, in places where food is a luxury, not a right.

"Marcus." Jenny's voice pulls me back. She's standing now, uncertainty written across her face.

I haven't heard my real name in so long it takes me a moment to respond. In the club, I'm Tank. The Vice-President. The weapon King points at problems that need solving. Marcus died somewhere between leaving the police force and joining the Savage Riders.

"Jenny." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "What are you doing here?"

Her chin lifts slightly. It's the same stubborn look she used to give our father when he criticized her.

"This is my friend Amelia," she says, gesturing to the woman who now stands beside her, one hand resting on the child's shoulder. "And her daughter Anna. They need help."

I look at Amelia, and, beyond the bruise, beyond the exhaustion, I see something in her eyes I recognize all too well. Determination. This is a woman who's been backed into a corner and is ready to fight with everything she has.

"What kind of help?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Her husband," Jenny says, voice tightening with anger. "Ex-husband," she corrects when Amelia flinches. "He's threatening to kill her if she doesn't come back. He's already put her in the hospital twice."

"He's a cop," Amelia speaks for the first time, her voice surprisingly steady. "No one will help me. Not the system, not domestic violence shelters. He finds me wherever I go."

A cop. Fucking hell. Of all the complications, this had to be the worst. The irony isn't lost on me, though. I left the force because of corrupt cops, and now one's hunting my sister's friend.

"When was the last time he contacted you?" I ask.

Amelia pulls out her phone and hands it to me without a word. The screen shows a string of text messages, each more threatening than the last.

*I know you're still in Riverbrook. I can smell you.*

*Take my daughter from me again and I'll drag you back by your hair.*

*No one hides from me. You know that. I know you left town.*

The last one came in thirty minutes ago: *Tick tock, Amelia. I'm getting closer.*

Ice forms in my veins as I read, but my face gives away nothing. Years of training—military, police, and club—have taught me to mask my reactions. But inside, something dark and violent stirs to life.

"Jenny," I say, handing the phone back to Amelia. "Can I talk to you? Privately."

My sister exchanges a look with Amelia, then nods. "I'll be right back," she promises.

I lead her to King's office, closing the door behind us. The moment we're alone, the words tumble out before I can stop them.

"What were you thinking, bringing them here? You have no idea what's going on right now."

Jenny's eyes flash with the same temper I remember from childhood.

"What's going on is that my friend is being hunted by her psychotic ex-husband who happens to be a cop with friends in every department within a hundred miles.

What's going on is that little Anna hasn't slept through the night in months because she's terrified her daddy is going to hurt her mommy again. "

"Jenny—"

"Where else was I supposed to take them?" she continues, voice rising. "We're from Riverbrook, not here. No one knows us in Blackwater Falls. That's why we came. That and..." She pauses, swallowing hard. "And because I thought my brother might actually give a damn."

"Jenny..."

"I know we haven't talked in years," she continues, voice softening slightly.

"And that's on both of us. But Amelia and I work at the same daycare center.

I've watched her come in with injuries she tries to hide, watched her jump at every loud noise.

And Anna..." Her voice breaks a little. "That little girl flinches when a man raises his voice.

She hides under her desk when she hears sirens. "

The image sends a fresh wave of rage through me. Children shouldn't live in fear. Not of sirens, not of raised voices, and certainly not of their own fathers.

"He's going to kill her, Marcus," Jenny says quietly. "If not today, then eventually. And Anna will either watch it happen or grow up thinking that's what love looks like."

I close my eyes briefly, fighting against the memories her words evoke. Our own father never hit our mother. He saved the physical discipline for me, but the emotional control, the constant criticism, the way he'd check her phone and monitor her every move... it was its own kind of violence.

When I open my eyes, I see tears in Jenny's. Not falling. She's too stubborn for that, but pooled and threatening.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "For showing up like this. For bringing trouble to your door. But I didn't know where else to go."

And just like that, the wall I've built between us crumbles. This is my little sister, the one I promised to protect, the one I left behind with our father when I enlisted. The guilt of that decision has haunted me for years.

Before I can think about it, I pull her into a hug. She stiffens for a moment, then melts against me, her arms wrapping around my waist. She feels smaller than I remember, more fragile, though I know she's anything but.

"I should have been there for you," I murmur into her hair. "After I left."

She pulls back enough to look up at me, wiping at her eyes. "And I should have called more. Visited more. But Dad..."

"I know." Our father's control extended beyond his presence. Even after his death, his influence lingered like a ghost.

"Are you going to help them?" she asks.

I sigh, running a hand over my face. "It's complicated, Jenny. This guy's a cop. That means he has resources, connections."

"So do you." She gestures around us. "You have a whole brotherhood of scary-looking men with guns. And I know enough about motorcycle clubs to understand that the police don't exactly intimidate you."

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. "When did my baby sister get so perceptive about bikers?"

"I've watched enough Sons of Anarchy to get the gist," she says with a small smile, which fades quickly as reality reasserts itself.

"This isn't just about hiding them, is it?" I ask. "You want this guy gone."

Jenny meets my gaze steadily. "I want Anna to grow up without looking over her shoulder. I want Amelia to sleep through the night without waking up screaming. Whatever that takes."